


Avalon's Ghosts

by camelots



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Canon Universe, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, basically season 6 of Merlin if all the characters had survived at the end of season 5, medieval setting, season 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21871897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camelots/pseuds/camelots
Summary: After the battle of Camlann, Merlin and Morgana are forced to enter a truce to save the ones they love. Together, they summon the Sidhe to open the gates of Avalon, but all magic has a price. Arthur and Mordred may have survived, but Camelot will never be the same. New threats to the throne have arisen and Merlin is confronted by the prospect that his decision may not have been the right one.
Relationships: Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. the gates of avalon

Merlin sees her across the lake.

  
The hood of her black cloak is drawn, obscuring half her face, but he knows it’s her. It’s in the way she moves — despite all her years away from Camelot, Morgana Pendragon hasn’t lost the regal grace that’s been engrained in her since birth. Somehow, she appears elegant even as she drags a body towards the water.

  
Mordred’s armour has been removed. Crimson blossoms across his shirt over his stomach. He’s unconscious, head slumped against Morgana’s shoulder and shoes scuffing against the grass.

  
“We need… need to stop her…” With each word Arthur murmurs, the colour in his cheeks grows fainter. He struggles to move in Morgana’s direction, but Merlin’s grip around his waist is stronger.

  
“No, my lord, we can’t.” Merlin holds Arthur to him. Without his support, he knows Arthur will collapse, and honestly, it eases his panic to feel Arthur’s chest rise and fall beneath his arm. It assures Merlin that Arthur’s still alive.

  
“We have to.” Arthur pulls, but it’s futile. His strength is gone; it’s all he can manage to keep in this half-upright state.

  
“Later. First we need to get you to the lake.” Merlin takes several steps, grimacing as Arthur’s fails to cooperate. “My lord?”

  
Arthur’s attention is fixed upon his sister. “There must be… be something you can do?”

  
“I can’t help you _and_ stop her. You’re more important.”

  
“But-”

  
“Arthur.”

  
Merlin fears he’ll have to knock Arthur unconscious, but then Arthur turns to him. Their faces are inches apart. Merlin can see each eyelash that frames Arthur’s blue eyes; feel each warm, trembling breath that escapes Arthur’s lips.

  
“Camelot needs its king, Arthur.”

  
He’s certain Arthur will challenge him — when has Arthur Pendragon ever made things easy? He doubts _easy_ is even a word in Arthur’s vocabulary.  
Perhaps it’s the fact he’s bleeding out, or maybe for the first time in forever he’s come to acknowledge sense, but Arthur says, “Okay.”

  
They stumble together down the bank. Arthur’s laboured breaths become shallower. Merlin’s bones ache with an exhaustion he swears will haunt him for years to come. He wants nothing more than to stop. After these past few days, after Camlann, after revealing his true self to Arthur, he wants to rest, but he can’t — not yet.

  
“Merlin.” Arthur’s hand covers Merlin’s, his skin cold and knuckles calloused. “I can’t…”

  
“It’s not much further.”

  
Another step. Arthur trips, buckles, falls. Gravity heaves Merlin down as well. They lay on the grass, the water a few metres away, Arthur’s body pinning Merlin’s under him.

  
“It’s okay,” Arthur says.

  
Merlin struggles beneath Arthur’s weight. “No.”

  
“Merlin-”

  
“No.”

  
“ _Merlin_.”

  
Merlin stills.

  
“It’s too late…” Arthur’s head rests in the crook of Merlin’s neck. Merlin feels Arthur’s muscles relax, the tension seeping away with his hope. “Just… just hold me.”

  
He can’t. He can’t give up, he can’t lay here and hold Arthur as he slips away, he can’t lose his king, his best friend, his other half. He _can’t_. He doesn’t know who he is without Arthur. He doesn’t understand the point of all the power that flows through his veins if he doesn’t have Arthur to use it for.

  
“No.” Merlin heaves them both to their feet and Arthur’s body becomes rigid once more. Pain mars Arthur’s expression and his hand drops from Merlin’s to press at his wound. Guilt twists Merlin’s stomach, but he doesn’t let it slow him.

  
_Soon everything will be okay. Soon Arthur will be healed._

  
They continue to the lake, Merlin practically carrying Arthur now. There’s only a few steps left when Arthur’s eyelids droop and his feet drag against the ground.

  
“Arthur?”

  
He doesn’t respond.

  
“Arthur!” Merlin presses shaking fingers to Arthur’s throat and catches a feeble pulse. “No, no, no. Stay with me. It’s not much further, I promise. Please, don’t leave me, not yet, not now.” Not when they’re so close.

  
They reach the lake’s edge. Water submerges their ankles, their knees, their waists. Arthur’s breathing slows.

  
That’s when Morgana acknowledges Merlin. She’s made it to the lake as well, Mordred in her arms. Their eyes meet — pale green and storm blue. Merlin’s mouth becomes dry, preparing himself for the worst, but Morgana only nods.

  
A truce.

  
They both have ones they love on the edge of death, wounded by a sword forged in dragon’s breath. They’re both willing to forgive the past, just for an instant, if it means there’s a chance. Tomorrow is another story, but for now they want the same thing.

  
Morgana extends her hand and Merlin clasps it. Together they call upon the Sidhe: two of the greatest magic users in history utilising their powers in harmony. Blue flashes skim the water’s edge and, in sync, Morgana and Merlin’s eyes glow gold.

  
Time slows.

  
A Sidhe elder hovers in the air before them, staff in hand and pointed blue ears emerging from a brown crown. “High Priestess,” he says, and then turns to Merlin. “Emrys. How unexpected.”

  
“Your Majesty,” Morgana says, and Merlin’s relieved she’s taken the lead. “We seek entrance to Avalon. Our… companions are in need of your assistance.”

  
Merlin suspects he can release Morgana’s hand now, but he doesn’t.

  
The Sidhe assesses Mordred and Arthur - their pallid skin, the blood that seeps from their wounds and stains their clothes, the way their lives are slipping further and further away with each second. “I will grant you both entrance,” says the Sidhe, “but be aware, this favour does not come for free. There will be consequences.”

  
“Whatever the consequences may be, I’ll pay them, so long as Mordred lives.” Morgana speaks without fear of the future. There’s no hesitation, no waver in her voice, no doubt.

  
_Don’t think I don’t understand loyalty just because I’ve got no one left to be loyal to._

  
Merlin can now truly appreciate those words she’d said to him. She finally has someone to be loyal to, and he’s unnerved by the way it’s brought out the similarities between them. How far she’d fallen in her isolation; he wonders how different things may have been had he only been honest with her.

  
She looks to him, as does the Sidhe elder, and he says, “Same. If you save Arthur, I’ll give you anything.” A dangerous promise, but he means it. Nothing will ever be as important as the life of the man slumped against him.

  
“Then we have a deal.”

  
Time resumes, and the Sidhe elder becomes a blur of blue that dances at the corners of Merlin’s vision. Morgana’s hand falls from his, and Merlin wraps both arms around Arthur, relieved when he feels Arthur’s still breathing, if only faintly.

  
A crack forms in reality, as though it’s been torn apart like a sheet of paper. The gap grows and through it Merlin views the lake, the tower, but the world is different. The sky is violet, the water shines as though made of sapphires, and the tower radiates an aura that draws Merlin closer. Morgana enters with Mordred first, and then Merlin follows, holding Arthur tightly.

  
Power radiates in this realm. It’s laid out on a spider’s web, winding around each individual, and Merlin’s tempted to reach out and draw upon a thread.

  
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A female Sidhe has perched on Merlin’s shoulder. “You may be powerful, Emrys, but even you can’t control the magic here.” 

He wants to try. He wants to know how it feels to control a power that great, but he heeds the Sidhe’s warning and restrains his magic. The Sidhe hops into the air and leads them further into the lake, until the water reaches their throats. Closer and closer to the tower they wade.

  
“Understand this, Emrys,” Morgana says. She hasn’t looked at him since they called upon the Sidhe elder together. “When this is over, and Mordred is safe, I will take what’s mine. The only thing protecting Arthur right now is that Mordred’s life is in danger.”

  
“I expected nothing less,” Merlin replies. He isn’t naïve enough to believe that one moment of peace is enough to erase years of hatred.

  
When they come upon the shore, Merlin begins to heave Arthur up, but a group of Sidhe flutter around him and lift Arthur into the air with their magic. Merlin watches as Arthur floats towards the tower, out of his grip. He feels oddly vulnerable without his king to hold.

  
One Sidhe ushers Merlin along. “Come now, Emrys. He’s in safe hands.”

  
“I can carry him,” Merlin says.

  
“That’s unnecessary.”

  
But he _wants_ to. No matter how heavy Arthur is, especially with his chainmail, Merlin prefers it when Arthur’s with him. However, knowing this way will be faster, and seeing Morgana comply as the Sidhe do the same with Mordred, Merlin plods towards the tower.

  
When they reach the entranceway, the female Sidhe flutters in front of Morgana and Merlin. “This is as far as you can come.” Behind her, the other Sidhe guide Mordred and Arthur inside.

  
Panic bubbles within Merlin. “No, I have to stay with him.”

  
“That won’t be possible.”

  
“You don’t understand-” Merlin attempts to push past the Sidhe, but an invisible barrier blocks his way.

  
“Whilst you are in Avalon, you will respect our traditions. Only the wounded may enter the tower.” All that’s visible of Arthur is the red fabric of his cloak sliding across the cobbled tower floors, and then that too is gone.

  
Morgana obliges and wanders away to inspect a nearby monument. Merlin supposes he ought to do the same; he should take this opportunity to glean all the information he can from Avalon, but he hasn’t the motivation. Instead, he sits dutifully outside the tower, back against a brick wall, intending to wait until he receives news of Arthur’s well-being.

  
It’s difficult to assess how much time passes. There’s no sun above him and the sky’s violet shade doesn’t change. He nods off at one point, chin lowered to his chest. As something prods his cheek, he startles awake, barely able to catch a Sidhe darting away with a juvenile giggle.

  
He stretches, muscles stiff from the hours he’s spent there, and then a familiar voice says, “You ought to be careful; the Sidhe are cunning creatures.” Merlin groggily raises his head, and there, dark hair tousled and mouth quirked into a half grin, is Lancelot.


	2. the first ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all have a happy and safe holiday season! Merry Christmas for Wednesday to anyone who celebrates it :)

Lancelot du Lac has not aged a day.

Where lines have become permanently etched beneath Merlin’s eyes from stress and his posture slumps with exhaustion, Lancelot is invigorated with more life than he’d had before his death. Merlin’s never seen his friend so well, which he presumes is down to Avalon’s magic.

Merlin wants to leap to his feet and hug Lancelot, but he doesn’t. His memory has been tarnished by Lancelot’s resurrection. Although he’s pretty certain he released Lancelot’s soul, he needs to be certain before he acts upon his whims.

“Although,” Lancelot says, “a man of your talents can probably deal with one pesky Sidhe.” There it is — the confirmation.

“It's really you.” Merlin wraps his arms around Lancelot, who returns the gesture. “What- what are you doing here?”

“This is where you put me to rest, remember?” They separate, and Lancelot frowns. “I think the more pressing question is what _you_ are doing here. Are you…” _Dead_.

“No!” Merlin shakes his head vehemently. “I’m okay. I’m here for Arthur. He’s… he…” Merlin’s throat closes. How do you say that your best friend, the person you’ve dedicated half of your life to, is on the brink of death? He’s scared that if he speaks, it’ll make the situation too real. Just recalling the circumstances chips at his heart; if he cements the situation into words, he thinks his heart will shatter completely.

“Oh.” In a single syllable, Lancelot conveys the sorrow Merlin feels. Lancelot adverts his gaze for a moment, processing the news. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and then says, “He’ll be okay. What they can do here — it’s beyond anything I ever thought possible.”

“It’s his only chance,” Merlin says. “I couldn’t… there was nothing…” He’s never felt so helpless in his life as when he found Arthur on that battlefield, knowing the sword that had pierced him was forged from dragon’s breath.

“No one has done more for Arthur than you, even if he doesn’t realise that.” Lancelot places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I know you’ve done all you can. You always do.”

Merlin nods; he doesn’t trust himself to do anything else. With Lancelot’s encouragement, he leaves his post by the tower and follows along the shore of the island. They talk of easy things: new additions to the knights of Camelot, Gwaine’s latest debacles, how Leon believes Arthur loves poetry. Merlin’s almost able to forget Arthur’s dying — almost, but not quite.

“And Gwen?” Lancelot says eventually. His voice has grown soft, as though he’s stepped on hallowed ground. “How is she?”

“She’s well,” Merlin says. He’s not sure how much Lancelot wants to hear.

“Did she and Arthur…”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m pleased for them.”

“Yeah.” Merlin feels he ought to add more, even though the topic is confusing for him for reasons he dare not explain to Lancelot. “They’re happy together.”

“She deserves that.” Lancelot’s gaze is on the lake’s horizon. There’s a moment’s quiet before Lancelot tacts on, “Arthur does as well. They deserve each other.” There’s no animosity in Lancelot’s tone, just a bitter sweet sadness. Merlin relates more than he’d like to admit.

“She misses you. We all do."

“Believe me, I’d give anything to be with you all again. Properly. Not like the last time.” Not when he’d been a hollow shell, Morgana’s puppet at best.

An idea begins to form in Merlin’s mind. “What if…” He catches it on the tip of his tongue.

“If?” Lancelot glances at him, a look that Merlin’s missed, the one that says _what are you planning now?_ Because Lancelot _knows_ him, in a way that so many people haven’t throughout Merlin’s life. In a way that even Arthur didn’t until he was at death’s door.

“What if there was a way for you to return to us? Properly.”

“That would be a miracle, but alas, there isn’t a way.” Yet Lancelot gaze remains on Merlin, as though asking _unless?_ Merlin stuffs his hands in his pockets and ponders for a moment. He stares into the distance at where the fog swallows up the lake, obscuring the real world beyond Avalon.

“I watched the Sidhe create a tear between this realm and the real one; it’s how Arthur and I got here.” _Along with Morgana and Mordred_ , but Merlin doesn’t add that. He doubts Lancelot will react well to his temporary truce with Morgana, no matter if it was to save Arthur’s life. “Maybe I could do the same.”

“Even if you were able to create another tear, it doesn’t change that I’m dead. My existence is bound to this place.”

“You said yourself, what can happen here is beyond anything we could think possible. Surely it’s worth trying?”

“And if I turn out… that way?” Cold, empty, vicious.

“Then I’ll drag you straight back here.” Lancelot doesn’t speak, so Merlin urges, “Isn’t it worth trying?” There’s a possibility that a part of Merlin is using Lancelot to cure his anxiety over Arthur. Because there’s the chance Arthur won’t survive, that Merlin will fail, and he doesn’t want to return to the living realm alone.

It seems Lancelot is thinking along the same wavelength. “If I could pass through, even dead, then no matter if Avalon can heal Arthur or not, there’ll be hope for him.” Of course the prospect of helping someone else would be what motivates Lancelot, instead of his own self preservation.

“Well, potentially. Arthur was struck by a sword forged in dragon’s breath, so his tether here may be different. But yes, ideally.”

“Then we should try.”

The pair step into the lake, wading towards the boundaries of Avalon until the water reaches their waists. They stop, Lancelot a metre behind Merlin, and Merlin closes his eyes. Despite the Sidhe’s warning earlier, Merlin reaches for the magic that surrounds him. He senses its threads, plucks at one of them cautiously, causes it to vibrate down the line and affect all those around it. Unbridled power swells within him.

He seizes the threads, draws them to him, allows the energy they contain to flood his system. When he opens his eyes, he can see it — the real world, just across the barrier. He outstretches his hand and ventures deeper, until his fingers graze the invisible wall. There’s ripples in the water as Lancelot slowly follows.

“If this works, find Elyan. Bring him back too for Gwen,” Lancelot says.

“I will.” Merlin sets his palm flat against the barrier and takes a deep breath. The threads become tort, Merlin’s eyes glow, and a small tear forms. Merlin compels it to grow wider, the veins in his forehead accentuated in concentration. Sweat slicks his hair to his skin, he begins to shake, and distantly he’s aware Lancelot’s touched his arm.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“No.” He can’t give up. He has to save Lancelot, and Elyan, and Arthur especially. He has to save everyone.

“This is too much, Merlin.”

“I’m fine.” His vision has become blurry; his right hand has six fingers now. “I can do this.”

“Stop, please.”

Merlin expels a last burst of magic and the barrier rips apart. Merlin collapses into the water, momentarily submerged until Lancelot hauls him up. Together, Lancelot’s arm around Merlin to keep him up, they stare through the gap into the real world.

“You did it,” Lancelot says breathily.

“Yeah.” Merlin’s shocked himself. Something warm runs across his upper lip and he tentatively raises his hand. His nose is bleeding.

Lancelot notices. “Are you alright?”

“It’s nothing,” Merlin says, despite feeling rather queasy. He shifts away from Lancelot to stand on his own feet. “You should go through.”

Lancelot hesitates. He’s afraid, and Merlin doesn’t blame him. Lancelot’s been in Avalon for years now; the real world is just an old memory to him.

“Is there still a place for me in Camelot?” Lancelot asks. “After what I did.”

“ _You_ did nothing. That was Morgana.” Lancelot appears unconvinced. “There’ll always be a place for you in Camelot.”

“I committed treason.”

“Morgana committed treason. Arthur knows you’re the most honourable knight Camelot’s ever had; he’ll see sense. I’ll make him.” Merlin isn’t entirely sure how he’ll convince Arthur when he’s also on thin ice after revealing his magic, but he could never leave Lancelot stranded.

Lancelot nods. “Thank you.” The fear remains in his eyes, but he holds himself a little taller and expels a slow breath. “I’ll wait for you on the other side.” If it works, that is.

They assess the tear between the worlds and Lancelot approaches the threshold. Merlin’s nails carve half moons into his palms. His nose bleeds heavier. If this goes wrong, if he kills Lancelot (if that’s even possible when Lancelot’s already dead), he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Lancelot’s a few inches away from the veil now, fingers curiously grazing the separation between the realms. He pushes forward, and there’s a surge in the lake behind Merlin. A figure rises from the water and screams, “ _No!_ ”

Merlin flinches, and Lancelot freezes, but it’s too late — he’s already entered the real world. Merlin turns to the woman, and for a moment elation blooms in him. Before him is Freya, still wearing the red dress that he burnt her in all those years ago.

Never in his wildest dreams did Merlin imagine he’d see Freya again in the flesh. He’s missed her, more than he could ever put into words. Although their time together may have been short, he’s thought of her most days. She’s imprinted herself on his heart — not because they were friends, or could’ve been lovers, but because there’s no one Merlin’s ever met who he’s related to like her. Arthur may be the other side of his coin, but Freya is his mirror.

His elation is quickly buried as he recognises the horror in her expression. “What have you done?” she whispers.

In a flash, the tear seals itself shut. Fog encompasses Avalon again; the real world is gone and, more importantly, so is Lancelot.


	3. the lady of the lake

Wherever Arthur Pendragon is, it’s cold. The bed is rough beneath him, there’s a tight pain in his chest, and the taste of salt lingers on his tongue.

“Merlin,” he murmurs, but no one rushes to his side. He uses his elbow to prop himself up. “Merlin?” He opens his eyes. It takes a second to adjust to the dim light. The darkness twists itself into incomprehensible shapes until finally he’s able to make out that he’s alone in a small, windowless room. There’s a side table beside him, the candle upon it snuffed out, but aside from that and the bed the room is empty.

Arthur rises, his muscles stiff. His armour has been removed, as have his other garments. He’s been dressed in a plain white shirt and brown trousers. The fabric rubs at his skin, far less comfortable than the soft cotton he’s used to. “Merlin-” he tries to call out, but his voice cracks midway and he coughs. He braces himself against the side table, hand on his side as it aches.

He lifts the hem of his shirt. His wound has been sealed shut, an angry red scar in its place. His fingers trace the groove, both curious and repelled by what’s occurred; it will take far longer than a day for Arthur to trust magic.

“You need to rest,” comes a voice from his left. He whirls and there's a blue creature the size of his hand hovering in the air. It has long pointed ears, two antennae, and teeth that have been filed into sharp points. With nothing else to hold, Arthur grabs the candle; he wonders where they’ve placed his sword.

“Where am I? Where’s Merlin?”

“You’re in Avalon. Emrys is outside; once you’re healed you can return to him.”

Arthur treads towards a door, never once turning his back on the creature. “Emrys?”

“Your servant.”

“You mean Merlin.”

“They are one and the same.”

There’s a familiar sinking sensation in his stomach, the kind he felt when Merlin first revealed his magic. The man who has been by his side for a decade, who he trusted above everyone else, is a stranger to him. Merlin’s had a whole second life Arthur was unaware of. Although he doesn’t fear Merlin (he believes what Merlin claims about using his magic for Arthur and Camelot) Arthur can’t reconcile the man who he called his best friend with the one he’s slowly learning exists.

Arthur swallows. “Thank you for your help, but as you can see, I’m quite well now, so I’ll be on my way.” He grasps the doorhandle behind him and twists it, but it doesn’t budge. He’s locked in.

“Magic remains in your system,” says the creature. “It must be dispelled before you can leave.”

“You can’t trap me here. You have no right.”

“It’s what’s best for you.”

“I demand you open this door.” Arthur raises his candle, as though in threat, but it doesn’t convince him let alone the creature.

He may be the king of Camelot, well versed in sword and physical fights, but he has a severe lack of experience with whatever is before him now. He doubts his skills will be of particular use, not against the creature’s magic. _Merlin could deal with it_ , Arthur thinks. He wonders how many times he’s unknowingly been in situations like this where Merlin has saved him. Unfortunately, his servant is nowhere in sight now.

The creature flutters closer, undeterred. “We made a deal with Emrys that we would save you. We intend to keep our side of the bargain.”

“And my sister? Did you make a deal with her too?”

“That is between us and the High Priestess.”

Arthur interprets that as a yes. They’re saving Mordred, he expects. He can’t help but think that Camelot would be better off if Merlin had let him die, had let Mordred die, and had focused his efforts on taking down Morgana instead. Then his city could find peace; his life isn't worth that of his people’s.

“You must rest,” the creature says. Arthur intends to protest, but his eyelids have become heavy. The candle slips from his grip and rolls across the cobbled floors. He rests against the door and allows gravity to tug him down. He blinks, once, twice, three times, and the room around him grows darker. On the fourth blink, his eyes remain shut.

\- - -

Merlin sits upon the shore with Freya. Despite being on land for some time, her hair and clothes remain damp. Merlin stares at the fog, beyond which is Lancelot. His nose has finally stopped bleeding, but his head now throbs; Avalon’s magic certainly wasn’t made for him.

“Time and existence work differently here,” Freya says. “Nothing happens in Avalon that the Sidhe don’t see and approve of. You’ve got to beware, Merlin; you may’ve opened the gates of Avalon for Lancelot to walk through, but the Sidhe let him leave.”

Merlin hangs his head and rakes fingers through his hair. “So I’ve helped make Lancelot a pawn again.”

“I can’t say for sure. He may be okay, but I’d suspect whatever the Sidhe have planned, he’s a part of it. As are you and Arthur.”

“I told him I’d drag him back here if it went wrong, if it became like the last time.” Merlin draws his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. It seems he’s making a habit out of failing those he cares about these days.

Freya gently touches his hand, cautiously, seeking permission. When he doesn’t pull away, she winds her fingers through his, their shoulders pressed together. “You did what you thought was right. Hopefully he’s out there now, alive and well, having been gifted a second chance because of you.”

“Hopefully,” Merlin echoes feebly. He’ll never forgive himself if something’s happened to Lancelot. “I suppose that means I can’t help Elyan.” Even though he’d told Lancelot he would.

“You could,” Freya says, “But I wouldn’t risk giving the Sidhe another advantage.”

Merlin turns to her. He takes in the curve of her lips, her accentuated cheekbones, her jawline. His stomach flutters for a moment, but that spark is crushed by his dread. “I can’t help you, can I?” He’ll have to leave her here, alone.

“You’ve already helped me. I’m happy here, Merlin. I belong.”

“With the Sidhe?” Freya is everything they’re not; where they are cunning and manipulative, Freya is kind and compassionate.

“No. In the lake. My magic connects to it; it’s changed me; it’s a part of me. I could never leave it.” She rests her forehead against his, both of their eyes closed. He feels her warm breath on his skin as she says, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you have nothing to apologise for. I’m glad.” He truly is. He wants Freya to be happy, especially after all she suffered in the real world. He hopes one day he can experience the same; that he too will find a place where he truly belongs and his abilities are not only tolerated, but welcomed. Where he can be himself without fear of judgment. He still believes that place could be by Arthur’s side, but he fears he may have waited too long before telling Arthur and Arthur's beliefs against magic may have been carved too deep.

Freya shifts slightly, moving back so she can look at him again. She brushes his fringe from his eyes, smiling softly. “I’m proud of you.” He frowns, not quite understanding. “The lake shows me things sometimes, like what you did at Camlann.”

“Anyone in my position would’ve done that. It was the right thing to do.”

“You really don’t see how amazing you are, do you?”

He knows he’s supposedly the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth, that he has a gift most would kill for, but that isn’t _him_. That’s just a part of him, something he’s never thought much of because it’s always been there. He certainly doesn’t feel amazing right now, with Arthur on his deathbed and Lancelot’s fate unknown.

Freya convinces Merlin to spend the night in a small cottage near the lake, instead of propped up against the tower. He’s grateful for her encouragement, as his back aches far less after sleeping on a bed. She’s in the kitchen when he wakes, preparing something for breakfast. He offers to help, and it’s as he’s cutting the ham that he realises she’s only making enough for one.

“What about you?” he asks.

“I’m not really alive, so…”

“Do you drink or sleep?”

“I can if I’d like, but I don’t need to. The lake sustains my existence.” She appears nonplussed by the fact, and he supposes he would be too if that had been the way he’d lived for years.

“Speaking of, I ought to return Excalibur to you.” Currently it’s set on the kitchen table, far too casually for a weapon of its power.

Freya shakes her head. “No. I fear Arthur will need for what’s to come.”

They sit outside in a patch of sunlight. Although Freya’s dress is damp, the picnic rug remains dry beneath her. After all the things Merlin has experienced, he doesn’t question it. The conversation drifts with ease, from Ealdor, to Freya’s hometown, to the small things Freya has missed about humanity.

“I really miss apples,” she says.

“Apples?” It’s such a simple thing to miss that Merlin can’t help but smile.

“Yes! I tried eating one last year and it just wasn’t the same. My taste is ruined.”

“Maybe there’s a spell that can help that?”

“Ooh, do you think?”

It’s exciting, talking of magic so casually with someone who experiences it on a daily basis as well. Not only that, but contemplating the small things magic can do. Usually he has to seek spells to undo enchantments, or cure people, or achieve something that’ll save the whole Camelot. It’s nice to contemplate a spell that’s purely to restore someone’s taste so they can eat apples.

He wonders if this is what his life could’ve been like had Freya survived. If they’d be living in a cottage like this, by a lake amidst the mountains, discussing unimportant things they can use their magic for. He thinks he’d be happy if such a life had eventuated, but he knows deep down it wasn’t meant to be. He was born to serve Arthur.

It’s must be late in the afternoon (not that Avalon seems to have any concept of time) when a Sidhe interrupts Freya and Merlin. They’re in the midst of debating the most useless spells they’ve come across when the blue creature zips into view.

“Emrys,” it says. “Your king has woken.”

Merlin scrambles to his feet, already striding towards the cottage to collect Excalibur when he remembers Freya. He slows and turns to glance at her over his shoulder. “I have to…”

“I know,” she says. “It’s time I returned to the lake, anyway. Good luck, Merlin.”

He nods, and the single gesture speaks legions. It’s a thank you, a goodbye, an apology, a promise that this won’t be the last they see of each other. But for now, his king needs him.


End file.
